


Stranger Things

by venis_envy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Finger Sucking, Kissing, Love, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Oral Fixation, Panic Attacks, Sexual Content, Trust, Worried Derek, cuddle!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 13:19:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venis_envy/pseuds/venis_envy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't until the next time it happens that Derek starts to notice that it's actually a <i>thing</i> for Stiles. Something that has to do with comfort more than sex, and it's a little bit strange, but if it's what Stiles needs, then Derek will give it to him. Whatever he wants.</p><p>(See notes within for more information)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stranger Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sapphirescribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphirescribe/gifts).



> Written for this prompt over on the Teen Wolf Kink Meme on LJ:
> 
> "Either Derek or Stiles can't get enough of the other's cock in his mouth. He loves giving his partner blow jobs, but he also loves holding his partner's dick in his mouth when it's flaccid, when they're lying in bed, even when they sleep. It's soothing, calming, almost like a pacifier.
> 
> It can start with the partner getting sucked feeling awkward about how much his boyfriend loves to just hold his cock in his mouth, but eventually he learns to enjoy it as well. Sometimes when they're sitting on the couch, he can tell his partner is antsy and just unzips and pulls his dick out, offers it to his partner without a word, and his partner's relief is palpable. Maybe he lays with his head on his lap, or maybe he gets on his knees on the floor, it doesn't matter as long as he gets that cock in his mouth."
> 
> I definitely veered a bit off track from the prompt. Consider it more "inspiration," I guess.
> 
> Also, in case any of you are still unaware, sapphirescribe is the best.

They're alone in Derek's loft the first time it happens. Stiles has a look in his eyes that Derek isn't used to seeing. It's a little bit desperate, a little bit wild, and Derek isn't quite sure how to react, so he doesn't. He just lies there and let's Stiles do what he wants to him.

Plenty of strange things have happened to them since they started this. Dozens of near-death encounters with the supernatural, and Derek knows what Stiles craves after those. Desperate, life-affirming sex, usually, before either of them even have the chance to wash the blood off their hands, before Derek has the opportunity to heal completely from whatever it was that tried to tear him apart limb-from-limb.

But sometimes it isn't all that simple. Sometimes, Stiles needs more than that, and spends all night just touching Derek, petting him and rubbing all over him, like he needs to feel him _everywhere_ just to know he’s still alive. And when his hands start to slow, his soft touches drifting aimlessly, Stiles just wraps himself around Derek and holds him tightly until they both drift off to sleep.

This isn't one of those times, though.

Stiles sucks him off hard and fast, moaning around his mouthful of cock and digging his fingertips into the muscles of Derek's thighs. He fucks down against the mattress, getting himself off on the friction and the filthy sounds he's drawing from Derek as he swallows him down.

When Derek comes, it's one of the most intense releases he's ever experienced. He's trembling and his fingers are twisted into the sheets beside him, legs shaking as Stiles continues to lick and suck until every nerve ending in Derek's body feels raw and exposed. He's about to beg Stiles to stop, to tell him he can't take any more when he tilts his head up off the pillow and sees Stiles wiping a tear from his cheek.

Derek can't make him do anything after that, so he just lies there, shaking and twitching as Stiles mouths at his sensitive, flaccid dick.

He’s never seen Stiles look so lost before, even as he lays his head on Derek’s thigh and touches him everywhere his hands can reach while Derek’s dick is still soft between his lips.

Stiles falls asleep that way, and Derek lies awake and watches him until his breathing seems to level out into something closer to normal, closer to calm. Derek drifts off shortly after that, a shallow slumber that keeps him on edge and ready to spring into attack mode if the need arises. He wakes more than once to the sound of Stiles whimpering in his sleep, still nestled between Derek’s parted knees, his head pillowed against Derek’s thigh.

Stiles’ lips are pink and parted and the lines of his face look nothing like they normally do when he’s in his usual relaxed state of deep sleep. Derek combs his fingers through Stiles’ hair, brushes the pad of his thumb against Stiles’ cheekbone, the shadow beside his nose, the bow of his lip. Stiles moans in his sleep, his head turning slightly from side to side until his lips find Derek’s finger and close around it.

~*~

It isn't until the next time it happens that Derek starts to notice that it's actually a _thing_ for Stiles. Something that has to do with comfort more than sex, and it's a little bit strange, but if it's what Stiles needs, then Derek will give it to him. Whatever he wants.

Derek spent the afternoon out in the woods with Scott and Isaac, covered in blood that was mostly his own and cursing himself for his inability to focus when there are other people around to protect. If it weren't for his concern that Isaac was about to get his head ripped off by a feral omega, Derek would have seen the backwards thrust of the falchion before it pierced through his breast bone.

He's sprawled out on a filthy secondhand thrift store couch in the loft, wiping away the last of the dried blood when he hears the door slide open.

Derek half expects it to be Isaac coming back to check on him, but fortune has never been a friend of his.

Stiles looks pissed as he checks Derek over for any lingering injuries. His chest is mostly healed now, just an angry pink mark where the skin has knitted itself back together.

"You aren't supposed to do that shit without me," Stiles says as he stands before Derek with his hands balled into fists at his sides.

"What, die?"

"Exactly."

Derek doesn't really know what to say to that, so he just reaches out, curls a hand around Stiles' hip and tugs him forward. He's still weak from blood loss, his thoughts a little bit foggy, so Derek doesn't even register the fact that Stiles is pulling a fist back to punch him until the blow lands against Derek's mouth and the taste of blood is coating his lips.

Yeah, fuck fortune. Derek doesn't remember the last time he actually had a _good_ day, let alone a normal one.

Stiles' chest is heaving as Derek pulls a hand away from his own mouth and examines the blood on his fingers. He glares up at Stiles, lips parting to form words he probably shouldn't say, and wouldn't even mean, but before he has the chance to speak, Stiles is straddling Derek's lap, sucking a bloody, swollen lip between his own and kissing Derek like his life actually depends on it.

Derek knows this part. He vaguely understands it, anyway. So many things in Stiles' life are completely out of his control, but this, this is something he knows how to handle. In the aftermath of destruction, whatever it might be, Stiles knows that, as long as Derek is alive, he belongs to Stiles. And Stiles will always be allowed to take comfort in him, in any way he sees fit.

Derek kisses him back, but he doesn't bother trying to take the lead, just lets Stiles do what he needs to do.

"Fuck you," Stiles says against Derek's lips, but there's no real anger in it, just a shaky urgency. "Do you know what would happen to me without you?"

Derek doesn't. Not really. It's something they both try not to think too much about.

Stiles is rocking in short, jerky motions that signify the onslaught of a panic attack, so Derek just holds him, strokes his back and his neck, kisses his cheek and his eyelids before moving back to his lips and pressing whispers of affection into each kiss.

Stiles shoves a hand between them and starts working the button loose on Derek's jeans, even though they're ripped to shreds and barely hanging on him anyway.

Derek has lost too much blood today for any of it to go to his dick right now, but that doesn’t seem to matter to Stiles. He just holds Derek in his hand, warm and gentle, and slides his tongue between Derek’s lips, licking away the lingering traces of blood as the split heals itself.

Derek slips his hands up Stiles’ shirt and presses his thumbs into the space between his ribs. Stiles rests his forehead against Derek’s, kisses the corner of his mouth, then slides down off of his lap. He settles himself between Derek’s knees, hands wrapped around his hips, and nuzzles against the crease of Derek’s thigh.

Derek rests a hand on top of Stiles’ head. He doesn’t have the energy to pull Stiles back up onto his lap, even though that’s where he wants him, his body already missing the weight of Stiles against him.

“Can I?” Stiles asks, breathy and quiet as he gazes up at Derek through a thick fringe of lashes.

Derek shakes his head, heart squeezing in his chest at the idea of disappointing Stiles while he’s in this state. “I’ve lost too much blood,” he says. “There hasn’t been enough time.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Stiles replies, his breath warm against the sensitive skin of Derek’s cock. “I just… please?”

His gaze flicks down before he's looking back up at Derek again, and the pleading expression in his eyes is enough to break Derek, to tear him open all over again.

Derek threads his fingers into Stiles’ hair and urges him on. Whatever he wants.

Stiles mouths at Derek’s foreskin, kissing him tenderly before sucking his soft dick between his lips. He presses the flat of his tongue to the underside and gives it a gentle suck.

Stiles doesn’t seem to be disappointed by the fact that Derek isn’t hard. He rests his forehead against Derek’s lower belly and shoves his arms into the space between Derek’s back and the couch cushions.

Derek doesn’t know how long they stay like that, but he feels the twitch of Stiles’ tongue against his dick every now and then, and he thinks it must be helping. Stiles is completely placid. He feels heavy against Derek’s thighs, and Derek finds himself drifting off to sleep like that, his head tilted up against the back of the couch.

~*~

Derek has got Stiles bent over the table near the window, driving into him from behind with an arm wrapped tightly around Stiles’ waist to hold him close. The moonlight filtering through the glass casts a blue glow on Stiles’ dark hair, and Derek leans over him to bury his face in it and breathe him in.

It was a mellow day for both of them, no undue stress or threats on their lives. This sex is neither life-affirming nor desperate and hurried, but Derek still finds himself thinking about Stiles’ unusual brand of self-soothing. He can’t help but wonder if this oral fixation extends to anything at all Stiles can put in his mouth, or if there’s just something about Derek’s dick, even when it isn’t leading to sex.

He slides a hand around Stiles’ throat, enjoying the jump of his pulse under Derek’s palm as he presses open-mouthed kisses to the back of Stiles’ neck. Derek pushes into him as deep as he can, circles his hips while he’s buried inside, and feels the vibration of a moan against the fingers on Stiles’ throat.

Derek drags his fingertips down Stiles’ neck and back up again, licking at the hollow behind Stiles’ ear. He traces Stiles' bottom lip with his index finger, and it earns him exactly the result he’d expected. Stiles curls his tongue around Derek’s finger, sucks it into his warm mouth and doesn’t stop, even when Derek starts to pound into him again, even when Stiles is calling out to God and Derek and anyone else within earshot as he comes all over the surface of the table.

~*~

Derek wakes one night to the thundering sound of Stiles’ heart and quiet noises of distress. He sits up quickly on the edge of the bed as his eyes scan the room for any signs of a threat. There’s no one else there, though. Just Derek and Stiles. Stiles, curled on his side in the corner of the bed with his back against the wall and his knees drawn up to his chest. He’s deep in sleep, but his heart is still pounding violently. Derek crawls across the bed, closing the distance between them.

He places a hand on Stiles’ cheek and curls himself around him the best he can without disrupting Stiles’ position. It’s a nightmare, he knows. Scott had warned him about these a long time ago, when he realized Stiles and Derek’s relationship was more than just physical. When he finally accepted that they were actually important to each other.

“Stiles,” Derek says quietly. He knows it’s best to lead Stiles out of his dreams as peacefully as possible rather than jarring him awake. “Stiles,” he repeats, a little louder this time.

Stiles whimpers, his face contorting into a grimace that looks to be a combination of pain and fear.

Derek wraps his arm more tightly around Stiles and presses a kiss to his temple. “Wake up,” he whispers. “Please, wake up.”

Stiles’ face seems to relax minutely, his fingers uncurling and coming to rest against Derek’s collarbone.

Derek moves forward and presses his lips to Stiles’, hoping that, if nothing else, maybe he can turn his bad dream into something more pleasant. Stiles’ lip trembles beneath Derek’s, and then he’s pressing them into a firm line.

“Stiles,” Derek says again, and he can hear the leveling thrum of Stiles’ heartbeat now, knows it must be working, at least to some extent.

Derek cups Stiles’ cheek again, brushes a careful finger over the thin skin of his eyelid, strokes the thick shadow of his lashes, and then gently traces the curve of Stiles' bottom lip.

Stiles parts his lips and sighs against Derek's fingertip. Derek moves in to kiss him again, not bothering to move his finger from where it's pressed into the softness of Stiles' lip. When he pulls back, Stiles' eyes flutter open, squinting in the darkness as they try to adjust.

Derek can feel the relief rolling off of him, and he thinks part of it must be his own, too.

"It was just a dream," he whispers. "You're safe."

Stiles' tongue peeks out to taste Derek's fingertip. "So are you," he replies sleepily, and then he's closing his lips around Derek's thumb.

His hand slips around the back of Derek's neck holding him close as Stiles readjusts his position to fit himself more comfortably against Derek's body.

~*~

It's not until seven weeks later, when they're having one of those rare days free of violence and worry and panic attacks, that Derek allows himself to think — to _really_ think — about his place in all of this.

He'd do anything for Stiles, there's never been any question about that, but is it possible it's actually become something for Derek, too?

Stiles is brave, loyal, and fearless. He spent some of his most formative years of personal development surrounded by werewolves and banshees and witches — all things supernatural and make believe — and yet, he doesn't break. He doesn't lose track of who he is. Stiles is a leader, a warrior, a teacher, a best friend, and an insufferable smartass.  

He's sprawled out on the couch with his head in Derek's lap, watching The Avengers. Derek's got his fingers threaded through the soft strands of Stiles' hair, deeply considering the possibility that he's got certain fixations of his own that can't be helped, when Stiles turns his face into Derek's lap and drags a knuckle down the line of his zipper.

Stiles isn't upset or angry or sad, he isn't worried or anxious or in any way out-of-sorts as far as Derek can tell, but it's obvious what he wants. And given the fact that they've been locked up together all day for a six hour sex marathon, and Derek doesn't smell any level of arousal at all, he's sure it isn't a sexual thing this time, either.

With an affectionate little tug, Derek moves his hand from Stiles' hair. He undoes the button of his jeans, then slides the zipper down.

Stiles closes his eyes and inhales deeply, his fingers twisting into the hem of Derek's shirt. Derek strokes a finger over Stiles' lip, loving the way he parts them in anticipation at the smallest touch, open and willing and ready for whatever Derek gives him.

Derek pulls his soft dick free, slides the velvety tip back and forth over Stiles' damp bottom lip, and slips his fingers back into Stiles' hair once Stiles is satisfied with Derek's dick between his lips again.

His tongue twitches, nearly vibrating as it curls up on the sides, making the perfect cradle for Derek's cock to rest in, and Derek realizes, yeah, he definitely takes a certain measure of comfort in this himself.

It's warm, soothing, reassuring, and constant. It's something they can give to each other even if neither of them fully understand it.

Once he'd really started observing and taking note of this strange behavior of Stiles', it didn't take long to deduce it's strictly a Derek-centric thing.

It doesn't matter if Derek is the direct object of Stiles' current anger or anxiety, Stiles still seems to be inexplicably placated by having Derek in his mouth — Derek's fingers, Derek's dick, sometimes even just kissing him helps; sliding their tongues together, and Stiles sucking Derek's bottom lip between his own.

Derek is sure that, if examined more closely, it could be traced back to a glitch in his psychosexual development, a classic Freudian case if Adult Oral Fixation, but Derek had always thought Freud was a self-serving dickbag anyway.

Stiles isn't hurting anyone with this habit of his. Sure, it centers around Derek, which could be viewed as a sort of codependency, but given that perspective, plenty of things in perfectly healthy, "normal," _human_ relationships could be, too.

Derek doesn't mind that Stiles depends on him a little bit, and he's perfectly okay with the fact that he depends on Stiles as well.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
